


mensonges

by IceImagines



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (squint hard that is), Character Study, F/F, Panic Attacks, Trauma, bad memories, based on "alive", hope i'm not disappointing any hardcore widowtracer fans, lena had a one sided crush on amélie pre-talon but that's about it, reaper moira and mercy show up for like 2 seconds, spiderbyte if you squint, this isn't a very shippy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceImagines/pseuds/IceImagines
Summary: She remembers, and she wishes so badly she didn't.





	mensonges

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone!
> 
> okay, again, i wouldn't really call this a widowtracer fic, which is only appropriate since that's not a ship that clicks well with me and anything outright shippy about them written by me probably wouldn't come out well. i do think their dynamic is incredibly interesting and this is what fueled this fic.
> 
> this involves detailed discussion of trauma and what i suppose you could call depression as well as vague allusions to self-harm, in case that might be triggering to anyone. 
> 
> enjoy!

Widowmaker remembers the girl and she cannot - cannot - stop. 

She has tried, God, she has tried. But her best efforts amount to nothing. Not even when she digs her nails so hard into her scalp it bleeds, hoping the pain will drown out the thoughts, not even that is enough and she still remembers. 

The memories would have brought her warmth once upon a time, a sense of familiar comfort, of family, of friendship. Now, they cut through her like an ice cold blade and make her shake with terror. She sees those faces in her mind and all they do is mock her, their features twisted into horrifying masks. 

_Foolish girl. Such a sweet, foolish girl._

Widowmaker remembers spitting the words out as she pressed her rifle to the fallen Overwatch agent‘s head, remembers the smile that stung on her lips. She doesn‘t want to think about it, but her mind keeps showing her the image of the girl‘s huddled form, her childlike face contorted in pain. 

Widowmaker could see her bravery, that incredible determination to save the Omnic monk, as she chased her across the rooftops. There was anger in her eyes, but no fear, not even for a moment. Widowmaker tried to understand, but she couldn‘t. She still can‘t. Why wasn‘t the girl scared? 

Maybe she knew what Widowmaker realized later, in the dropship on the way back to base. 

That even as she shoved the barrel of the Widow‘s Kiss against her head, even as she taunted her to cover up her own traitorous accelerated heartbeat, she could never have pulled the trigger.

The thought pulls a pathetic whimper from Widowmaker‘s throat. On the entire way back, she tried to convince herself that it wasn‘t true, that she would have killed the girl easily had she not reversed time and freed herself. 

Killing is what she exists for.

If she cannot kill, she is useless. Obsolete. 

If she is useless, she will be disposed of. She knows this because they have warned her a million times, whispered it in her ear every time her bullet didn‘t hit its target perfectly. 

The dread courses through her body as she is curled up on her bed, arms over head as if trying to shield herself from blows. 

Why didn‘t she kill her? Why, why, why? 

She had the shot. Twice. She didn‘t take it. 

Mentally, she rattles off data from Talon‘s files on the Overwatch agents that are still alive. _Lena Oxton, codename Tracer, former test pilot for the Slipstream program, involved in an accident that disconnected her from the time stream, outfitted with a device [chronal accelerator] that lets her warp time, approach with utmost caution, if necessary shoot to kill, shoot to kill, shoot to kill-_

Lena. 

Images flash before her eyes. Images of a time that seems a million years ago, that she remembers but barely knows why. Images of a woman with her face, with pale pink skin and hazel eyes, delicately taking the hand of the spiky-haired Cadet that has just been introduced to her and shaking it in greeting. The Cadet‘s eyes are large and a darker shade of brown than the woman‘s own, and they‘re wide with adoration as she stammers a clumsy _hello_. The woman with Widowmaker‘s face graces her with a smile, recognizing the look on her face for what it is in spite of the ring on her finger that digs into the Cadet‘s skin as they shake hands. 

There are images of a doctor‘s office, of a blonde woman with a ponytail and kind, tired eyes who is in the process of setting down a cup of coffee in front of her - the impostor - when someone knocks on the door. The Cadet enters, now not a Cadet at all anymore but an Agent, proudly displayed by a name tag on her chest. Her nose is bloody and her lower lip split open, but she smiles through it. 

_„Lena!“_ , the blonde woman exclaims, already hurrying her to sit down in a free chair. _„What happened to you,_ Schätzchen? _“_

_„Jesse kinda hit me in the face while training“_ , she says sheepishly and adds, _„accidentally, I mean, and as it turns out metal arms and faces don‘t really mix well, so, um...“_

The doctor just sighs while wiping the blood off her face and dabbing antiseptic into the cuts. _„Just try to be more careful, yes?“_

The impostor leans back in her chair, watching the Agent‘s wounds get treated. _„You Agents are all the same“_ , she chides. _„Do you know how many times Gérard has come home with a bloody face and much the same story?“_

_„Sorry.“_ The Agent winces as the antiseptic stings in her wounds, but the impostor just laughs. 

_„There is nothing to be sorry for, chérie. I knew what I was getting into when I married one of you fools.“_

The Agent blushes furiously at the nickname. The impostor smiles a knowing smile. 

Then there are images of a dirty white cell, blood on the floor, blood on her hands. The sound of the door opening screeches in her ears. She shrinks away from the light that floods the room, from the hands that seek to touch her. She recognizes the voice calling to her.

_„Mrs Lacroix! It‘s us - it‘s... it‘s me, Lena. Don‘t be scared, I promise we will help you. It‘s over now. We‘ll get you home.“_

She looks up and into brown eyes, worry etched onto a face she thinks that she should know, but she feels nothing at the sight of it. She doesn‘t know who Lacroix is, who the girl is talking about. She must be mistaking her for someone else. 

Lena.

Widowmaker shouldn‘t remember her name. Shouldn‘t remember her laugh. Shouldn‘t remember those eyes, always betraying an infatuation they both knew was fruitless, would have been even if Amélie hadn‘t been married. 

Amélie. 

It stings like venom if she just thinks about it. It catapults her back to a castle surrounded by a lake, to a school full of girls who loved only the ache in their feet when they forced themselves up on the very tips of their toes, sweat on their foreheads as they raised their arms, arched their backs just right; to a dark room and a wooden stage beneath her feet, the spotlight making her white swan costume shine so bright it hurt her own eyes; to a white dress and a small church and the arms of a man whose name she cannot remember no matter how she tries. 

Amélie is wrong. Amélie isn‘t who she is. Widowmaker isn‘t sure if she was ever real at all. She feels infinitely far away, a shadow, the quickly fading memory after waking up from a strange dream. The things she does remember, that her mind has marked with Amélie‘s name, feel foreign, out of place, like she received them through some sort of misunderstanding and not because it was her who lived through all of them. 

Some of them leave her cold. Some of them hurt.

She isn‘t supposed to feel pain, but she can‘t help it. She curls up tighter, knees drawn to her chest. The blanket beneath her is soft and smells of laundry detergent, but it stings in her nose like acid. 

Lena hurts.

Lena hurts because she‘s supposed to be gone. Widowmaker wants her to be gone so badly. She wishes she had killed her.

_Why would you do this?_

Her voice was so full of pain as she pinned Widowmaker to the roof, eyes filled with tears. 

_Why would you do this?_

Widowmaker wishes she had an answer for her. But there‘s nothing she could possibly tell her. Why did she do it? Someone told her to. Someone in a dark uniform with the same symbol on it that is etched into the skin of her thigh in red and black ink. 

When he or others like him tell her what to do, she can‘t say no. Not even if she wants to. 

He didn‘t tell her to kill Lena. He didn‘t know she would be there. If he had, Widowmaker would have pulled the trigger. She wouldn‘t have had a choice.

Lena made her choose and she hates her for it. 

_Sweet, foolish girl._

She repeats it in her head and she remembers, remembers, remembers and for just an instant, she wonders if Lena remembers her as well. If she imagined the flash of recognition in her eyes as Widowmaker let out a laugh in her face. A laugh that - she realizes this now - undoubtedly sounded like glee at the atrocity she had just committed to Lena. 

Something rushes through Widowmaker‘s veins that makes her eyes snap open. She scrambles to push herself up, nearly falling off the bed in the process. It takes her several seconds of clutching at her chest where a thin scar betrays the location of her heart to figure out what it is that she is feeling. 

It‘s panic, raw, white-hot panic. 

What is she afraid of?

_Why would you do this?_

_Because I can. Because it brings me joy. Because I like seeing the light in their eyes die._

_„Arrête de mentir“_ , she hears herself whimper. _„Ne me mens pas.“_

They‘re lies. They‘re all lies. 

Aren‘t they? 

She doesn‘t know and it drives her mad, but not quite as much as the memories that she‘s not supposed to have, that she doesn‘t want to have. 

She remembers Lena and she wishes with every bit of despair that her withering heart can muster that she didn‘t. 

When she remembers, she _feels_ , just like she does when she passes the two-faced doctor in the hallways and feels her claws dig into her flesh again. Just like she does when she senses the dead man‘s eyes on her when he thinks she has her back turned, the pity and the resignation in them. Just like she does when a girl in purple with eyes that shine almost like Lena‘s did dances around her and whispers forbidden things in her ear, promises of what she could be, promises of the revenge she could have if she just reached out and took it. 

Revenge. 

The word tastes bitter in her mouth. She imagines what it would be like to turn around the next time they tell her to kill someone, point her rifle at them instead. Imagines the fear in their eyes. 

She hurts things. She kills and she destroys and it‘s all she knows how to do. 

The look in Lena‘s eyes reminds her that it was different, once upon a time. 

She remembers and it hurts. 

It hurts so bad that Widowmaker digs her nails into her palms, counts to ten - _un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix_ \- and wills herself to become cold again, wills her heart to beat slower, squeezes her eyes shut until the images behind them vanish into darkness. 

It doesn‘t matter if she hates what she is.

She would rather die than become anything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> translation stuff:
> 
> "schätzchen" - "dear", "love", "honey", basically any generic nickname, source am german
> 
> "arrête de mentir, ne me mens pas" - "stop lying, don't lie to me", source google translate so feel free to correct me if necessary
> 
> the numbers you could probably figure out by yourselves but yeah it's 1-10 in french
> 
> by the way, the part with "she hurts things, she kills and destroys" etc is a reference to an issue of si spurrier's x-force comic from 2014! idk if anyone here has read that but it's my second big fandom and that quote specifically is from my favorite character, psylocke, who's VERY similar to widow in many ways, and i thought it would fit this fic.
> 
> i'm available on tumblr as icewuerfelchen if you want to talk to me there!


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